


A Goldfish's Christmas Wish

by QueenMab3



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab3/pseuds/QueenMab3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gets an unexpected Christmas visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Goldfish's Christmas Wish

Tiresome. Absolutely everything was tiresome. No less than seven hours of  _merriment_ today. Christmas crackers, ridiculous sweaters, and family togetherness. Not a single diversion to be had either. The least the Moldovan economy could have done was collapse and provide a nice distraction. Actually, knowing his mother, that wouldn’t have deterred the festivities. On Christmas she didn’t give a fig for how important his job was. ‘Family is more important, Myc.’ Even now, ensconced in the backseat of his car, he could  _hear_  her voice.

Of course family was important. He, of all people, understood that. It was a wonder single-handedly saving Sherlock’s reckless hide for three years didn’t put him in an early grave. _You’re welcome, mother._  She wasn’t to know about that though. Despite her genius IQ, she was remarkably easy to convince that his dear brother was on some kind of a holiday while the whole world thought he was dead. At least Sherlock hadn’t drugged everyone this year. That was some kind of progress.

There was progress on other fronts as well. This had been Sherlock and John’s first Christmas as a couple. Well, as an  _official_  couple. As saccharine as he found the whole thing, he was rather glad they’d declared themselves to one another. In the end, the wager he and Anthea had (that he’d won, naturally) didn’t even provide much of a distraction after years of them pining over one another. As with so many things, Mycroft Holmes found it  _tiresome_. John, at the very least, made his brother slightly more agreeable. Sherlock hadn’t even stolen anything from him today. He’d have to ensure John’s clinic gave him a pay raise for that.

Despite the absence of petty theft, a pregnant assassin, or a mass drugging, this holiday still managed to wear him out. There was a snifter of brandy he would partake in as soon as he got home. He craved solitude now. Well, that wasn’t  _precisely_  true, but it couldn’t be helped. Solitude would do in the absence of what he actually wanted for Christmas. But that was a thought best left to ponder after a glass or two, once the staff was sent away.

He finally was able to relax when he sunk into a plush armchair precisely 47 minutes later. How Sherlock thrived on running about all the time he’d never know. The quiet was so much more rejuvenating than poking at dead bodies and chasing unwashed criminals all over the city. A sigh escaped him, knowing that he’d never fully understand his brother. At least one didn’t have to completely  _get_  Sherlock in order to protect him. John was evidence of that. The man claimed that Sherlock’s brain was still partially a mystery to him and yet he did an admirable job at least trying to keep Sherlock safe.

Three sips into his well-deserved drink, the doorbell interrupted his train of thought. It had to be someone of his acquaintance or his security detail would have stopped the person well before they made it to the door. Almost as soon as the sound of the chime died down, it was replaced by a rather urgent banging. Mycroft tried to go through the possibilities in his head. Not work-related or Anthea would be back or he would have received a call. He was forced to look through the peephole without the luxury of knowing who he’d be confronted with, a prospect that didn’t cheer a man who liked full control in all things.

Stunned, he opened the door to a pink-cheeked rather embarrassed looking DI Lestrade, the absolute last person he thought he’d see at nearly eleven o’clock Christmas night.

“Gregory! What… um… what?” Thank heavens Sherlock wasn't here to witness this idiotic verbal display. He’d never live it down. Finally his manners kicked in. “Do come in.” He ushered his unexpected visitor into the foyer.

“Greg. How many times have I told you that you can call me Greg?”

“I hate it when anyone shortens my name. My mother, seems to think she is entitled to do with it as she pleases.  _That_  is why, I choose to use your full name, Gregory.”

“God, she doesn't call you Crofty, does she?” The lopsided grin he gave at the thought of such a  _reprehensible_  nickname almost made the jibe funny. Almost.

Mycroft did give the other man a small smile. Purely to be polite, of course. “No, nothing as horrible as all that. But I have come to despise  _Myc_ ,” he spat the word out with more than a little disgust, “over the years.” He had to make sure Sherlock never  _ever_  decided Crofty would be amusing.

An acutely awkward silence descended on the room, Greg fidgeting and shuffling his scuffed shoes on the inlaid floor. The pattern must have been extremely engrossing, because he seemed intent on staring at it until he had it committed to memory. Despite the fact that he had come to Mycroft’s house for some reason, he seemed ill-equipped to actually communicate said reason. That told him everything he needed to know.

“Out with it, Gregory. What has my dear baby brother done this time?”

“No! That’s not why… I mean I just came by because I wanted,” he took a deep breath and finally looked up and made eye contact. “I wanted to see you.” Color flared across his face that had nothing to do with the cold night.

“Wanted to… whatever for?” None of this was predictable or made a bit of sense. He was not used to feeling this kind of confusion. In his position, it had become habit to be the one in the room with the most information. Always have the upper hand. And now he had no idea what was happening and it was mildly alarming.

“Well, I’ve been wanting to say something to you for a while now and I decided if I was ever going to do it, I’d do it tonight. ‘If you can’t say it at Christmas, when can you eh?’ Heard that in a movie once.” That charmingly boyish smile made a reappearance and Mycroft felt a lurch in his stomach. Not entirely unfamiliar, but something he hadn't experienced in more years than he cared to count. Focus! It was time to focus on what Gregory was stammering on about. “I uh. Well I wanted to see if you’d want to go out to dinner. With me.”

His nostrils flared in anger. “I’m sure you and Sherlock will find this all hilarious come tomorrow, but I-“

“I’m not taking the piss, Mycroft!” It came out in a desperate shout that gave Mycroft pause. “It’s just that it’s Christmas and I wanted to ask and I don’t… Sherlock doesn't know anything about this.”

When Mycroft didn’t immediately respond, the DI continued on, talking faster than was his habit. “It’s just I find myself looking forward to the times Sherlock cocks things up enough for you to get involved and I get to see you. And I figured now that he and John finally got together, that might happen less and less. And I know I must be half mad to even  _consider_ getting involved with a Holmes and you could probably have me killed for even asking-“

Mercifully, Mycroft put a hand in the air to silence him. “Assuming nothing catastrophic happens in the next 72 hours, I should be free on Wednesday evening.” He knew full well that it was one of Gregory’s nights off. Not that he had the DI’s schedule memorised.

“Right. Wednesday. That’s brilliant!” It may have been an insipid, uninspired summation of his feelings, but Mycroft smiled at the enthusiasm all the same. “Well I’ll just be off then. Going! I’ll just be going.” He glanced down at his watch and back up at Mycroft with a horrified expression on his face. “Bloody hell, I hadn't realised it was that late. I’m sorry I barged in like this.”

“No, it’s fine. Unexpected, but not unpleasant.”

“I’ll take that over ‘get the hell out of my house you daft idiot’ any day.” Before Mycroft could register what was happening, Lestrade closed in on him and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. He could feel the heat of the other man’s blush. “Goodnight, Mycroft Holmes. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

When Mycroft came to his senses, he was alone in the room, still clutching his glass of brandy. His fingers brushed the place where Gregory’s lips had been just minutes before. However improbable and foolish it sounded, he could still  _feel_  the kiss. Oh god, what had he gotten himself into?

**Author's Note:**

> Bless your sweet soul for reading. I wrote this for my Secret Santa multifandom-madnesss on Tumblr (who's lovely and you should check her blog out). My first foray into Mystrade and Mycroft was surprisingly fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> *Bonus points if you can spot the Love Actually reference!


End file.
